


Lucky

by fannishliss



Series: Kink List [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Animal Play, Bathing/Washing, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky finding his way around the Asset's protocols, Bucky gets naked, Bucky meets Lucky, Hair Brushing, Implied Consent, M/M, Milk, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Topping from the Bottom, Virgin Steve Rogers, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 13:16:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3448544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve first dreamed about the possibility of this moment in 1931.  He had waited so, so long.  And now, here they were — stifled by layers of protocol, one metal arm, and Steve’s crippling knowledge of Bucky’s inability to express clear consent.  Luckily, Bucky figures out a way around his protocols.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> Bucky is prevented by his conditioning from being able to clearly express his desires in this story, and is fighting his way around those protocols. Steve is very careful, but they do engage in sexual touch before Bucky can explicitly state his consent. It is Bucky's idea, and he is consenting, but can't so say so out loud.
> 
> In case the mention of Lucky along with Animal Play concerns you: there is no bestiality in this fic. :)

 

The elevator doors opened to the lobby of Stark Tower. Bucky’s flat gaze swung around and locked onto Steve. Steve had seen that unmoving stance and unaffected glare from the fight on the helicarrier. He couldn’t know whether to expect an attack or a hug— he had to be prepared for anything. 

“Bucky?” he asked. 

Bucky turned his head to one side. “Steve?” His voice was questioning, empty. 

“Yeah,” Steve said. He was shaking, full of adrenaline, in a cold lather with terrifying expectations, sweat-soaked from the punishing workout he’d been trying to dull his mind with seconds earlier. 

“You used to be smaller,” Bucky said, and Steve burst into tears. 

Bucky strode forward while all over the lobby, plain clothes Stark security tried not to make too many sudden moves. 

“Don’t cry,” Bucky said, flat and quiet. Steve expected Bucky to reach out, to drop an arm across his shoulder, but he didn’t. 

“It’s okay,” Steve said, through choking sobs. “Don’t worry about me.” 

“I think I do though,” Bucky said. “Worry about you.” 

“Oh God, Bucky,” Steve said. 

“You live here now,” Bucky said, in his affectless way. 

“Yeah,” Steve allowed. 

“I came to find you,” Bucky said, and fixed Steve with his sad, flat gaze: so much pain, so much strangled hope, like a swallow in a snare. 

“You found me, Buck,” Steve said. “You, uh, wanna come up?” 

Bucky said nothing, but moved forward into the elevator Jarvis was holding open behind Steve. Even without his armor, without his enormous guns, he walked like the Soldier Hydra had created, with implacable purpose. 

Steve wiped his eyes and nodded his thanks to all the security folks who had kept their cool and the doors slid closed. 

Bucky stood loose, staring forward as the elevator rose. 

“My floor is near the top,” Steve said. 

“93 floors,” Bucky recited, not turning his head. “Top three floors designated private residence of Anthony Stark and Virginia Potts. Floor 90, Avengers common area. Floor 89, designated private residence Dr. Bruce Banner. Floor 88, Sleeping Quarters 6, newly designated private residence Steven Grant Rogers.”

Steve didn’t know how surprised he should be that Bucky had managed to assemble so much accurate information on the Avengers and their supposedly private living arrangements. 

“With a million neon rainbows burning below me,” Steve mumbled, off tune. 

“What’s the use of swank and cash in the bank galore?” Bucky sang, soft, rich and vibrant. Bucky was ever the golden boy — gifted athlete, straight A student, champion dancer, talented musician, charming fellow and all-around swell guy — he made everything look so easy, even befriending a prickly runt like Steve. 

“I always loved Cole Porter,” Steve said, not knowing what else to say, and Bucky started over at the beginning. His blank face was an uncanny contrast to his beautifully modulated tones as the song poured out of him. 

“Here am I, facing tomorrow, alone in my sorrow—“ 

The elevator stopped, and Steve stepped out, and Bucky stopped singing. 

Steve had only moved in a week ago, yet thanks to Tony’s money, his belongings had already been unpacked and distributed around the floor, amongst everything Tony and Pepper assured him he would need. Apparently Pepper had taken the reins on setting up his apartment, and unlike her partner, she had impeccable taste. The furnishings were plain, neat and serviceable, the floors and wall treatments bare and spare, and there were several beautiful deco posters and constructivist paintings on the walls, including an original Rodchenko. 

Steve stared helplessly at the new home he’d barely gotten used to. He wanted to show Bucky around. He wanted to offer Bucky a long relaxing bath. He wanted to cook for him. He wanted to wrap him up in warm soft clothes. He wanted to dance with him across the beautiful wood floors and stand at the windows staring out over the city in peaceable, companionate silence. 

Bucky stood near the elevator and waited for Steve to make up his mind. 

Steve’s hospitality training finally kicked in. “What can I get you to drink?” he asked, red-faced and feeling on every wrong foot.

Bucky said nothing, but followed Steve toward the kitchen. 

Steve began to list beverages. “Let’s see, I can make coffee, I’ve got all kinds of tea, you can’t imagine how many kinds of tea there are, Buck, I’ve got beer and soda pop, and orange juice and milk…” 

Bucky stood as Steve counted beverages on his fingers, and said nothing. Nothing in his face changed except a glint in his eye when Steve said milk. 

“You want milk?” Steve asked. Bucky didn’t answer. “I got the good kind. Whole milk, organic, it tastes almost like it used to.” 

Bucky didn’t twitch, didn’t speak. 

“Oh, cookies! Sam told me where I could get these amazing cookies…. they deliver…” 

Steve brought a box out of the cupboard, feeling like this couldn’t go wrong. These cookies were amazing, so rich and full of butter and chocolate and wholesome ingredients. They were the cookies he’d only dreamed of as a kid. Maybe a little too sweet, but everything was like that these days. Steve poured two tall glasses of milk and put all the cookies on a plate and set everything on the table. 

“Have a seat, Bucky,” Steve invited, and finally Bucky sat, still and stiff. 

“Please, eat a cookie. Drink some milk,” Steve insisted, and finally, Bucky reached out, slowly, for a cookie. 

The silence as Steve watched Bucky drink milk and eat delectable cookies was not exactly companionable. Bucky’s face was so empty, even as he nibbled and sipped. He was nothing like the Bucky Steve remembered, who’d been pampered and cossetted by every dame in Brooklyn who knew how to bake. He’d always slipped half the bounty to Steve; the two of them sharing lunches at school and occasional improbable desserts in their threadbare apartment. Bucky had even once or twice been given baskets of baked goods by countryside ladies during the war, which he cheerfully shared with the other commandos. 

Steve finally noticed that Bucky shuddered as he sipped at the milk. 

“Bucky, you don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it,” Steve said as gently as he could. Panic was roiling in his gut at Bucky’s bizarre complex of behaviors.

“Good for your bones,” Bucky said, peering cautiously at Steve. 

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, frowning. 

“The asset drank what it was given,” Bucky said. “Or it got the tube.” 

Steve felt sick. “You… you’re not an asset. You can drink it if you want, you don’t have to.” 

“A weapon has no wants,” Bucky stated, the sadness deep in his eyes. 

Steve grabbed the edge of the table with both hands to keep himself from doing something rash. Bucky mirrored Steve, hands slow and flat. 

“Okay, Buck. Okay. Let’s just take a deep breath and go slow, okay?” 

Bucky said nothing. 

“It’s been almost a month. You’ve been acting on your own all that time,” Steve bargained, or denied, or begged. 

“Survival protocols: maintain adequate hydration and nutritional levels; prioritize disguise, shelter, and defensibility for preservation of Hydra’s asset.” Bucky ticked off his protocols one by one but his hands stayed flat on the table. 

“But you came to find me. Surely that isn’t part of Hydra’s plan,” Steve insisted. 

“Mission: incomplete,” Bucky said, swinging his gaze onto Steve. 

“But you remember me,” Steve said, knowing his voice was begging, his eyes were begging, every cell in his body was begging Bucky to say he remembered. 

“I remember,” Bucky said. 

Steve gave a huge sigh of relief, almost dizzy from Bucky’s simple statement, that turned out to be not so simple. 

“I remember you. I remember the Army. I remember becoming an asset to Hydra… its missions. The asset remembers its protocols. I remember everything.” 

“Oh,” Steve said. 

They sat there in silence. 

“You’re not trying to kill me,” Steve said, slowly, half a statement, half a question. 

“The asset has received no further instructions,” Bucky said. 

“You’re not the asset!” Steve said, trying to rein himself a little tighter and at the same time, relax the death grip he had on the nice table Pepper had put in his kitchen. 

“Hydra created the asset, and Hydra maintained it,” Bucky observed. “Without maintenance, the asset becomes erratic. It needs the wipe and cryo.” 

Steve’s eyes almost rolled back into his head with horror at what Bucky was saying. “We will never wipe you. We will never, ever put you into storage. I swear to you, on the name of all that’s holy, I am not letting anyone do any of that to you ever again.” 

“Then I will be erratic,” Bucky said, and in his voice was a subtle hint of that jerk Steve had loved with every fiber of his being. 

“Maybe,” Steve agreed. “If it’s erratic to eat an entire plate of cookies in one sitting, then I guess we’ll be pretty erratic.” 

Steve watched helplessly from the bathroom doorway half an hour later as Bucky knelt over the toilet, his stomach yielding back a mess of too-rich cookies. 

Baby steps. Baby steps. Tony and Pepper and Bruce and Sam reminded him. Baby steps. 

Bucky could respond to direct commands. 

“Take a hot bath, just as hot as feels good, and stay until you’re ready to get out,” Steve instructed, and Bucky luxuriated in a hot bath. 

Bucky could not express a preference, but he could choose what he wanted from a lineup of equivalent choices. Bucky chose from the clothes Pepper stocked in his closet; appropriate dress was a subroutine of his protocols. He could groom himself neatly, given the opportunity. Provided with books, streaming entertainment and computer access courtesy of Jarvis, Bucky could choose how to spend an afternoon. 

Steve learned to provide an array of foods. Bucky still couldn’t say what he wanted, but at least he could choose when ordered by Steve to eat. He selected things that were nutritious, as per Hydra protocol, but Steve noticed that he often selected things that Bucky had used to enjoy in the old days. 

In only a few days, Bucky achieved a kind of limited autonomy based on a combination of survival protocols, judicious commands, and Steve very carefully orchestrating Bucky’s choices toward things he seemed to prefer. 

There were still problems though. 

Bucky made no moves to leave the Tower. Apparently the Tower satisfied too many requirements for shelter and defensibility. 

He had horrible nightmares, slept very little, and circled the floor obsessively night and day. 

Worst of all, though, was his aversion to touch. 

Bucky had been frozen, thawed, starved, mutilated, beaten, stabbed and repeatedly shot over the course of decades. If anyone touched him in any fashion whatsoever, he seized up and held still like a terrified animal. Even the most lenient of his handlers had prodded, slapped, and cuffed him. He’d been hosed down, intubated, and violated in every conceivable way. With his miraculous serum-enhanced brain, without the cryo and regular wipes, he remembered every second of it with unrelenting crystal clarity. 

Steve wished that good memories from their old days together could somehow outweigh the bad ones. Upon command, Bucky could recount to Steve hundreds of memories, ways they had touched that felt right and good: Bucky propping Steve up when he fell, half-carrying him home and up stairs, nursing him, tending wounds, rubbing Steve with Vicks when he couldn’t half breathe, spooning soup into Steve, slapping the skinny shoulders with joy when Steve sold a drawing, and every so often, sheltering Steve from the cold with his own warmth, pressing the narrow back to his chest and wrapping the kid up in his own strong arms. Bucky’s voice was flat, but somehow, there was a light of pride in his eyes, a hint of contentment in his even tones when he spoke of those days. Steve offered himself as well as he could, standing near Bucky, sitting near him, keeping his posture receptive, his movements gentle, and his voice light — but Bucky made no move to reach out. 

The human need for touch had been burned out of the asset. But despite all they’d done to him, somehow they couldn’t burn the need to touch Steve Rogers out of Bucky Barnes. 

Steve was astonished when Bucky finally found a way to express that need. 

“The back is insufficiently clean,” Bucky said one day. That tiny gleam, the irrepressible hint of Bucky Barnes, was in his eye and Steve took note. 

“The asset cannot adequately inspect its own back. Possibly the back could become contaminated. The asset requires maintenance.” Bucky’s flat tone somehow held a note of triumph. 

“I could wash your back,” Steve offered casually. 

Bucky stared and didn’t move. 

“Bucky, report to me when a bath is required, and I will wash your back.” 

Clint’s archer friend Kate had to be away for a while, and she had dropped off Clint’s dog Lucky for the Avengers to take care of. The dog was staying on the common floor and needed exercise. Steve ordered Bucky to romp with the dog until one of them was worn out. 

Two hours later, Lucky was flat out in his dog bed and Bucky was rank with with the stink of overheated dog. 

Bucky shed his clothes into the hamper and climbed into a hot bath. Jarvis delivered water for baths at preselected temperatures, so it was always perfect. 

Steve cautiously grabbed the washcloth, soaped it up and washed Bucky’s back. 

It was as though a dam had broken. 

“Oh, Stevie, oh,” Bucky moaned. He pulled his knees up, tucked his forehead down, and presented as much arched back as he could. 

Steve stroked and stroked, gently washing, stroking and soothing under the pretext that the asset had been contaminated by Clint’s dog. After the bath was over, Bucky was more relaxed than he’d ever been and seemed almost happy. Bucky went to find a book, and Steve took himself in hand, the same hand that had stroked Bucky’s perfect, smooth back, while Bucky groaned with simple, happy pleasure. It didn’t take long. Steve washed his hands and face and went to join Bucky in the living room until time to work on dinner. 

The next day, Steve took Bucky back to visit Clint’s dog right after breakfast. Lucky was panting and eager to play with Bucky, who got right down on the rug and rolled around, getting dog spit all over his face and filling the crevices of his metal arm with stiff dog hairs. 

“The asset requires thorough inspection and decontamination,” Bucky reported as soon as they returned to their floor. 

“Go fill the bath,” Steve ordered, anticipating a repeat of the lovely bathing they’d enjoyed together the previous day. 

Bucky didn’t move. 

“Bucky?” Steve questioned, confused and surprised that Bucky had not obeyed a direct command. 

“The dog may be a carrier,” Bucky suggested. “A thorough inspection for fleas or other vermin is indicated.” 

Bucky’s face was flat, but his eyes fairly shone. 

“I’ll get my comb,” Steve said. He went to the bathroom to get his comb from the cabinet, and then on second thought, Bucky’s brush as well, but Bucky didn’t follow. 

When Steve got back, Bucky was waiting on the floor in front of the couch, stark naked. He was cross-legged facing the couch, head bowed, and he didn’t move as Steve approached. 

After so long being so careful, the idea of touching Bucky made Steve a little nervous. But yesterday, mediated by washcloth, hot soapy water, and the idea of dog contamination, Bucky had engineered a long session of soothing touch. It seemed like he was ready now to take another step forward. 

Carefully Steve announced his intentions. “Bucky, I’m going to sit down on the couch.” 

Bucky didn’t move. Steve hoped he would move away, or at least flinch, if he were unsure. 

Bucky was sitting so close to the couch that Steve had to spread his knees to either side of Bucky. Bucky didn’t flinch. 

“I should brush and comb your hair and look for fleas,” Steve said, maintaining the charade. Like any dog, Lucky got smelly after exercise, but Kate had him groomed religiously and there was no hint of fleas on him (the dog; Steve wouldn’t swear as to whether or not Clint himself ever had fleas). 

Bucky lifted his face to Steve, the face that Steve had loved his whole life, the face of the one person he loved more than any other. Bucky fixed his big eyes on Steve, not so sad and hopeless as they’d been a few weeks’ back, and presented himself for grooming. 

Steve lifted the brush, slowly, gently, and caught the ends of Bucky’s long hair. Tenderly, carefully, Steve brushed Bucky’s hair until there was no hint of a tangle. 

“Your hair looks so good,” Steve murmured as he brushed, soothed by the thick strands as they ran like silk through his fingers. “You’re doing such a good job taking care of it.” 

“Mmm,” Bucky said. The asset was never offered praise, and couldn’t acknowledge it, but nevertheless, Bucky’s noise of pleasure slipped free. 

Steve brushed for a long time until Bucky’s hair gleamed, soft and smooth. Through it all, Bucky looked up at Steve with soft blue eyes, still and trusting. 

Then Steve took up the comb and began to work it through, close to Bucky’s scalp, part by part. 

“Do you remember when we would get lice?” Steve asked. 

“You with your thin, fine hair,” Bucky said, “you only got ‘em half the time. They went around and around in the Barnes household.” 

“Don’t I know it,” Steve said. “I fine-tooth combed you so many times.” 

Miraculously, Bucky smiled, a tiny little twitch of the lips. 

Steve almost dropped the comb, but somehow kept his cool. 

“I loved it, Stevie,” Bucky said, his lips soft and relaxed in that tiny little smile. “I loved it when you combed my hair. It almost made up for the itching.” 

“I loved it too, Buck,” Steve nearly whispered. 

Steve ran the comb and sorted the hair with his fingers, soothing Bucky’s sensitive scalp. He remembered how it had always reduced Bucky almost to a jelly when Steve had combed his hair, before he grew tall and took to pomade on account of the dames. 

“Your hair is so thick and beautiful, Buck,” Steve whispered. 

Bucky was staring up at him, muzzy and relaxed. “Yours is like sunlight. Pure, clean sunlight.” 

“We sound like girls,” Steve laughed, easy. 

“The asset needs further inspection,” Bucky said, still with that cocky hint of a grin. He turned away from Steve, put his forehead on the floor, ass in the air, and spread his knees. His cock, heavy and full, hung interested and pointed away from Steve. There on display was Bucky’s strong ass, his hole, every part of him that should be private and owned by himself alone. 

“Further… inspection?” Steve coughed. He’d been half hard, but to see Bucky like this made all Steve’s blood run south so fast he nearly saw spots. 

“The asset is erratic. Stimulation may provide sufficient reset.” 

Steve had to file that away without thinking any more about it. Regardless of what Hydra had done to Bucky to prevent his autonomy in the past, right now, it was clear that Bucky wanted. 

“Further inspection, “ Steve repeated. “Well, I don’t see any problem here. Not at all.” 

“Tactile investigation is imperative.” Bucky’s voice was muffled but clear and steady. 

“Okay, I’m going to touch you,” Steve warned. 

“Mmm,” Bucky said, offering his assent and agreement the only way he could. 

Heat boiled up inside Steve — lust, love — pride — such a concatenation of regard for this incredible human being, who’d overcome so much, so brave, so perfect, so utterly fucking perfect. 

Steve leaned out and touched the back of Bucky’s head, where he’d already been desensitized by the brushing and combing. 

“Oh,” Bucky moaned, “Steve, Steve.” 

Steve dragged his hands down to Bucky’s neck, careful to watch for any flinch or any indication that Bucky didn’t like it, didn’t want it, or simply couldn’t tolerate it. 

Bucky mmm’d and oh’d and moaned Steve’s name, loose and relaxed, very different from the fear, tension, and rigidity that being touched had provoked in him at first. 

Steve explored Bucky’s back, all the places he’d washed so thoroughly the day before, and Bucky loved it, as far as Steve could tell. 

“Bucky, I need a reassessment,” Steve said gently. “Should this inspection continue?” 

“Imperative,” Bucky said, loud and clear. 

This was as close as Bucky got to being able to say, yes, I want it. Steve reminded himself that Bucky had already proven just moments earlier that he could defy a direct command from Steve. Steve tried to think clearly. If he couched what he interpreted as Bucky’s desire in an ambiguous command, then Bucky would be free to interpret that command the way he most desired, without defying Hydra’s protocols against the asset’s autonomy. 

“Bucky, can you position my hand where inspection will produce optimal results?” 

Steve was glad he asked when Bucky took Steve’s hand in his own, and moved it around himself to the front of his body. Kneeling up, Bucky explored his own body with Steve’s gentle hand — stroking his neck and chest and sides, touching his own lips (and subtly kissing Steve’s fingers), and finally trailing Steve’s hand down and down till Steve was touching Bucky’s cock. 

Steve was gripping Bucky. He’d first dreamed about the possibility of this moment in 1931. He had waited so, so long. And now, here they were — stifled by layers of protocol, one metal arm, and Steve’s crippling knowledge of Bucky’s inability to express clear consent. 

Bucky used Steve’s hand to explore himself — gentle at first on his cock, rolling his balls tentatively, pressing in behind them in a way that made Bucky groan. Steve tried to be as pliant and biddable as he could, to let Bucky feel exactly the touches he needed most. Bucky gripped harder and moved his hand faster, but held his hips still, as though the manipulation was Steve’s idea and not his own. Steve held himself slightly away from Bucky, careful not to overpower him with unwanted sensation. Bucky’s stuttering breaths, the tiny, abortive whimpers he stifled in his throat, his trembling hips — Steve let his hand be used, soaked in every sound, sight, smell and sensation — all so unbearably erotic that Steve, holding himself in ruthless abeyance, could hardly breathe. 

“Steve, oh, Steve,” Bucky moaned and come spurted out of him, hot onto Steve’s eager hand. Just for a moment, Bucky fell, trembling, back against Steve. Steve savored the semblance of an embrace, then Bucky pulled away, a lingering touch to Steve’s sticky hand as he left, headed for the bath. Steve remembered, wryly, that supposedly Bucky was still contaminated with dog, but Bucky hadn’t asked for help with the bath, so Steve left him his privacy. He went to his own bathroom, closed the door, licked his hand, pulled out his cock, and nearly fell over he came so fast and hard, the taste of Bucky sizzling sharp on his tongue. 

The next morning, Bucky rolled around on the carpet with Lucky until the worn out dog crawled to his bed and collapsed, paws over his eyes. Bucky fairly reeked of dog. His clothes were covered with fur. Steve would not have been surprised to see him panting, tongue hanging out. 

Back in their apartment, Steve waited to see what Bucky would say. Sure enough, Bucky presented himself to Steve in the loose yet expectant posture that indicated something to report. 

“What is it, Bucky?” Steve asked. 

“Contamination has undermined protocols. Asset failure imminent.” Bucky sounded smug despite his dire words. 

“Asset failure?” Steve asked. That sounded alarming. 

“Countermeasures required,” Bucky explained. There was that little grin again, reassuring Steve. 

“Countermeasures?” Steve asked, curious and a bit relieved. 

“This unit highly contaminated with essence of dog. Countermeasures required.” 

“What countermeasures?” Steve demanded. Every day with Bucky was a new challenge of figuring out what his convoluted pronouncements really meant. 

“Inspection for vermin, cleansing, tactile inspection, additional measures indicated,” Bucky said, and Steve could have sworn he was smirking. 

Steve ran for the brush and comb and as he expected, Bucky was seated naked in front of the couch by the time he got back. 

Steve carefully brushed and combed Bucky’s hair as before, pouring his love into every stroke. Bucky’s face was like the Mona Lisa, a subtle smile and an interior glow that sang of satisfaction. It was almost trancelike, the steady brushing, the repetitive pull of the comb through Bucky’s thick hair, the way their breathing synched up and the heat zinging back and forth between them. 

“Vermin not detected. Proceed to bath,” Bucky suggested. 

Steve started to lead Bucky to the bath they’d used before, the one off Bucky’s bedroom, but Bucky led him instead to the jacuzzi. The bathrooms in sleeping quarters 6 were opulent and no luxury was left un-luxed. A spacious room was devoted just to the jacuzzi, outfitted with a minibar, entertainment system — Steve didn’t even know what all. 

The tub was full of steaming water and Bucky stepped in. When Steve didn’t immediately follow, Bucky wrinkled his nose. 

“Steve, you’re covered in dog.” 

In a daze, Steve shed his clothes and joined Bucky in the jacuzzi, the jets pounding into his skin, pleasantly lulling. 

Steve washed Bucky’s back but this time, Bucky turned, taking Steve’s hand in his own and washing his front very thoroughly. Steve watched Bucky’s rosy nipples appear and disappear beneath the cloth and didn’t know how much more he could take. Bucky’s face flushed with the heat; his relaxed, nearly happy expression, undid the knots of anxiety Steve had carried since Bucky’s reappearance. 

Bucky stood and gripped the edge of the tub. 

“A thorough cleansing is required,” Bucky said over his shoulder. Steve soaped up the cloth and tenderly washed Bucky’s groin and ass. 

“Mmm, Steve,” Bucky mumbled. 

Steve had never known he could be so aroused. 

Bucky led them out of the tub and into Steve’s bedroom. He produced a bottle of lube from Steve’s own drawer (when had he put it there? where had he gotten it?) and handed it to Steve. Then he pulled down the covers and lay himself face down on the bed. 

“Inspect,” Bucky ordered. 

Steve gave Bucky his hand. Bucky dragged it to his mouth, and kissed Steve’s fingers, biting just a little, sucking them in, laving them with his tongue. 

“Inspect!” Bucky said, and led Steve’s moistened fingers to his ass. 

“The lube will be cold,” Steve said, but Bucky just mmm’d and spread his knees a little wider. 

The lube trickled into Bucky’s crack and ran down. Bucky clenched a little and Steve didn’t know what he was doing. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Steve said. 

“Use your fingers,” Bucky said. 

Steve hesitantly touched Bucky’s tailbone, just above the meeting point of swells of his luscious ass. Slowly, he dragged the finger down, every sense on alert for any kind of negative response from Bucky. 

He touched the tight pucker, gently, and was surprised to feel Bucky push back against him. Steve pressed a little harder and watched in awe as Bucky’s ass opened, and his finger slipped in. 

“Does it hurt?” Steve whispered. 

“Nothing hurts,” Bucky answered. 

Steve pushed in. 

“Oh, mmm, Steve,” Bucky sighed, pushing back again. His movements were so slight as to be almost undetectable, but they were there. 

“Should I keep going?” Steve asked. 

“Proceed with inspection,” Bucky directed. 

Steve added more lube until his finger moved easily in and out of Bucky. 

“Add another finger,” Bucky said. “Mmm, that’s good.” 

Steve listened in awe, flushed with heat, as Bucky’s speech patterns slipped in and out of protocol. 

“Another,” Bucky said, and Steve was slipping a third finger into Bucky, feeling the grip of the tight muscle ease, feeling the heat and silk of Bucky, wanting more, and wanting nothing more than to give Bucky every pleasure either of them could imagine. 

“Inspection sufficient,” Bucky groaned, taking Steve by surprise. He stilled, then gently removed his fingers and started to pull away. 

“Additional countermeasures imperative!” Bucky said urgently. 

“Oh!” Steve said. 

Bucky rolled over and lifted his knees up, presenting himself. 

“Steve,” he said, and the look in his eyes, those beautiful eyes so blue and so dark, full of trust and love and lust, told Steve everything he needed to know. 

Steve reached for Bucky’s hand, and Bucky guided Steve’s cock where he wanted it. His eyes rolled back as Steve pressed inside. 

“Oh, oh, Bucky, I don’t, is this okay? you feel so good!” Steve babbled.

“Stellar,” said Bucky and Steve laughed and Bucky smiled, again. Bucky smiled! the real, happy smile of the old Bucky Steve had always adored. 

“Fuck me, hard,” Bucky said, and Steve pounded in, and Bucky laughed, and said, “that a way, pal!” 

Inside Bucky was heaven, pure heaven, and Steve had never felt so good. 

“Touch me,” Bucky said, and Steve jacked him, holding back until Bucky came, then letting himself go with a loud groan of pleasure. 

Steve pulled out as gently as he could and rolled to the side. From being unable to stand touch, to this, on his own — Bucky was a wonder. 

Well, not quite all on his own. Lucky had really made a difference. 

“You know, I really love Clint’s dog,” Steve commented, smiling at Bucky. 

“More a cat person,” Bucky said, carelessly. 

“Cat?” Steve asked, surprised. What did cats have to do with anything? 

Bucky grabbed Steve’s hand and petted himself with it, smiling and closing his eyes, reveling in the touch of Steve’s loving hand all over his body. 

Steve got the picture. 

“I like cats,” he agreed, stroking Bucky reverently.

**Author's Note:**

> So this story is for the kink Animal Play. It would have been a lot quicker and easier to put him in a hamster suit and have them romp around! But Lucky showed up and Bucky got the idea about Dog Contamination, and the story wouldn't let go. In the end, Bucky reveals that he is a Cat person, which, I totally agree. 
> 
> Lucky is such a good dog! You can google images of him to learn more. :)  
> In the comics, Kate took Lucky with her to LA. This must be a different 'verse. 
> 
> Next up : Anonymity!


End file.
